Rude awakeningIt’s five o’clock in the morning, a time when respectablepeople are still fast asleep in their beds, and thetelephone rings. Wakes you up. It’s the chief of policeon the line, so of course you dutifully reply, “SergeantStuder here, sir.” Naturally you’re still in bed, you stillhave a good two hours sleep left. Then you’re told a storya half-awake brain has problems getting to grips with. Soyou have to keep interrupting your lord and masterwith “What?” and “Sorry?” until eventually you’re toldyou’re a moron and you should wash your ears out . . .That wasn’t as bad as it sounded; the chief of policelikes to express himself forcefully, and moron, forgoodness sake! . . . What was worse was that hecouldn’t quite cotton on to what he was supposed to bedoing. A certain Dr Ernst Laduner, he’d been told, wascoming to pick him up in half an hour, to take him toRandlingen Psychiatric Clinic, where a patient by thename of Pieterlen – yes, P for Peter, I for Ida, E forEdith . . . – a patient by the name of Pieterlen had runoff.It happened now and then . . . At the same time, thatis during the same night, his boss went on, the directorof the loony bin – the chief of police had no very highopinion of psychiatrists – had disappeared. He’d getthe details from Dr Laduner, who wanted to make surehe was covered, covered by the police. And the chief ofpolice had made a joke involving the word “covered”,not a very good joke, one with a whiff of the cowshed.Laduner? Ernst Laduner? A psychiatrist? Studer hadclasped his hands behind his head and was staring atthe ceiling. Surely he knew a Dr Laduner, but wherehad he made his acquaintance, on what occasion?Because – and that was the remarkable thing about thewhole affair – this Herr Dr Laduner had particularlyasked for Sergeant Jakob Studer; at least that’s whatthe chief of police had said. And, after he had told himthat, the chief of police had added that he could wellunderstand why. It being a well-known fact thatStuder had the odd screw loose, it was no wonder apsychiatrist asked for him specifically.You could take that as a compliment, thought Studeras he got up, shuffled across to the bathroom andstarted to shave. What was the director of RandlingenClinic called? Würschtli? No, but something like that,it definitely ended in “li” . . . – The razor-blade wasblunt, tedious, since Studer had a heavy beard – . . .Bürschtli? Ah, of course! Borstli. Ulrich Borstli. An oldgentleman, close to retirement.So on the one hand there was Pieterlen, a patientwho had run off, on the other Ulrich Borstli, the director. . . And somewhere between the two of them DrLaduner, whom he ought to know and who wanted tomake sure he was covered. Why did he want to becovered by the police, and more particularly by DetectiveSergeant Studer of the Bern cantonal police? Thatwas the kind of unpleasant job that was always comingStuder’s way. How did you behave in a lunatic asylum?What could you do when the people behind the barsjust sat there raving? Carry out an investigation? It wasall very well for the chief of police to ring up and issueinstructions, but it wasn’t going to be much fun, thatwas for sure . . .In the meantime Frau Studer had got up, he couldtell by the smell of fresh coffee permeating theapartment.“Grüess Gott, Studer,” said Dr Laduner. He had comewithout his hat; his hair was brushed flat and a strandstuck up at the back, like a heron’s crest. “We’ve metbefore. You know, in Vienna.”Studer still couldn’t remember. Being addressedfamiliarly as “Studer” didn’t particularly surprise him,he was used to it, and he invited the doctor, verypolitely and slightly fussily, to come in and take off hiscoat. But Dr Laduner had no coat to take off, so hewent straight into the dining room, said good morningto the sergeant’s wife and sat down, all with an assurancethat amazed Studer, as if it were the most naturalthing in the world.Dr Laduner was wearing a light-coloured flannel suit,and the fat, loosely tied knot of his tie was a shimmer ofcornflower blue between the points of his white shirtcollar. He hoped Frau Studer had no objection, he said,unfortunately he was going to have to borrow her husband,but he promised to return him in full workingorder. Something had happened, something complicatedand unpleasant. Anyway, he knew the sergeantwell, had known him for a long time – Studer gave a bewilderedfrown – and had decided to treat the sergeantas a personal guest. Anyway, it wouldn’t be that bad.“Anyway” seemed to be Dr Laduner’s favourite word.And the way he spoke was odd, a mixture of easternSwiss dialect and formal German that didn’t sound likeauthentic Swiss German at all. And his smile was a littledisconcerting too; there was something of a maskabout it. It covered the lower half of his face up to hischeekbones. That part was fixed and only his eyes andhis very broad, high forehead seemed to be alive.No, thank you, Dr Laduner said, he wouldn’t haveanything, his wife would have his breakfast waiting forhim at home. Anyway, they had to hurry, reports wereat eight o’clock, and this morning he had to do theround of all the wards; whether the Director had disappearedor not, work still came first, duty called andall that. Dr Laduner made little gestures with his lefthand, still with the glove on, then stood up, gently tookStuder by the arm and led him out . . . Goodbye . . .It was a cool September morning. The trees oneither side of Thunstrasse already had the occasionalyellow leaf. Dr Laduner’s low-slung four-seaterbehaved itself and started without a murmur. Theopen windows let in a light breeze, which had a fainthint of mist, and Studer leant back comfortably. Hisblack boots looked a little odd beside Dr Laduner’selegant brown shoes.At first both men held back from speaking, andStuder used the silence to rack his brains about DrLaduner. He must have met the man somewhere . . . InVienna? Studer had been to Vienna a few times, inthose distant days when he had been comfortablyinstalled in his position as a chief inspector with theBern city police, the days before that business with thebank that had cost him his job and he had had to startagain from the bottom as a plain detective. Thingscould be tough if you had too strong a sense of justice.It was a certain Colonel Caplaun who had demandedhis dismissal, a demand that had been granted. Thesame Colonel Caplaun of whom the chief of policewould say, in his unbuttoned moments, that there wasno one he’d rather see in Thorberg Prison. No pointin wasting his time going over the same old story; he’dbeen cashiered and that was that. He’d started againfrom the bottom and in six years’ time he’d retire.When you thought about it, he’d got off lightly . . . Butever since that business with the bank he’d had thereputation of being a bit dotty, so actually it wasColonel Caplaun’s fault that he was being driven toRandlingen Clinic by a Dr Laduner to investigate themysterious disappearance of the director and theescape of a patient.“Can you really not remember, Studer? All thoseyears ago in Vienna?” Studer shook his head. Vienna?All he could see was the Hofburg and Favoritenstrasseand the police headquarters and an old and verysenior civil servant who had known the famous ProfessorGross, the leading light of criminology . . . But a DrLaduner he could not see.Then Laduner said, keeping his eyes on the road,“You’ve forgotten Eichhorn then, Studer?”“Of course!” Studer exclaimed. He was so relievedhe put his hand on Laduner’s arm. “Herr Eichhorn!Of course! And now you’ve gone in for psychiatry?Weren’t you going to reform the care of children withbehavioural difficulties in Switzerland?”“Ach, Studer!” Dr Laduner slowed down a littlebecause a lorry was coming towards them and stickingto the middle of the road. “Here in Switzerland theyissue more directives than there are holes in a piece ofEmmenthal. And they’re about as effective, too.”Studer laughed, a deep laugh. Dr Laduner joined inwith a laugh that was slightly higher.Eichhorn! . . .Studer saw a small room with eight boys in it, twelvetofourteen-year-olds. It looked like a battlefield: thetable demolished, the benches smashed to matchwood,the windowpanes shattered. He stood in thedoorway and saw one boy going for another with aknife. “Now you’re going to get it,” the boy said. And inone corner was Dr Laduner, looking on. When henoticed Studer in the doorway he signalled him not tointervene. And the boy suddenly threw the knife awayand started to cry in a sad, long-drawn-out wail, like adog that’s been beaten, while Dr Laduner came out ofhis corner and said, in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, “Bytomorrow morning all this’ll be cleared up and thewindows replaced . . . OK?”And the boys chorused, “Yes.”It was in the Centre for Children with BehaviouralDifficulties in Oberhollabrunn, seven years after thewar. An institution without coercive discipline. A certainEichhorn, a gaunt, nondescript man with straightbrown hair, had taken it into his head to see if it waspossible, without priests, or sentimentality or beatings,to make something out of these so-called juveniledelinquents. And he’d succeeded. For once theeducation authorities had a man on their staff whohappened to have a head on his shoulders. It doeshappen. In this particular case it was a man to whomEichhorn’s simple idea made sense. His idea was asfollows: the little villains were caught up in an inescapablecycle of misdemeanour – punishment – misdemeanour– punishment. Punishment arousedresentment, to which they gave vent by committingfurther misdeeds. But what if the punishment wereeliminated? Shouldn’t there come a point where theresentment had played itself out. Perhaps one couldmake a new start there, build on it perhaps, withoutthe humbug or, as Dr Laduner had put it at the time,“without the religious cod-liver oil”.Eichhorn’s experiments had been much discussedin specialist circles and when Studer had gone toVienna it had been suggested he have a look at them.He had arrived at the very moment when theresentment was reaching exhaustion point among themost difficult group. And he had been impressed. Ashe was a fellow Swiss, Dr Laduner, who was doing astint as a trainee with Eichhorn, took him to see thedirector. They had talked together, in slow, measuredtones. Studer had told them about Tessenberg, thereformatory in Bern canton, how bad things had beenthere for a while. By that time it was ten o’clock atnight, and there was a ring at the front door. Eichhornwent to see who it was and came back with a boy. “Sitdown. Are you hungry?” he asked him, and went to thekitchen himself and brought some sandwiches. Theboy was starving. He stayed with them until eleven,then Eichhorn’s wife took him to the guest room.Afterwards Laduner told Studer that it was the thirdtime the boy had absconded. This time he had comeback of his own free will, which was why he had beenreceived in such a friendly way. Studer had been filledwith genuine respect for both men, for Dr Ladunerand Eichhorn.“What’s Herr Eichhorn doing now?”Dr Laduner shrugged his shoulders. “Completelydisappeared.”It kept on happening. A man tried something new,useful, something that made sense, and for two orthree years things went well. Then suddenly he wasgone, vanished without trace. Well, Dr Laduner hadswitched to psychiatry. The question was, how had hegot on with old Ulrich Borstli, the director who hadalso disappeared?For a moment Studer thought of asking about thedetails of his disappearance, but then let it be; hecould not get the image of the young Dr Laduner outof his mind, standing there in the corner of thewrecked room watching the boy go for his classmatewith a knife . . . To grasp the psychological momentwhen a situation is ripe! Even at that time he’d showngreat understanding had Dr Laduner. And SergeantStuder felt flattered, flattered that he’d been specificallyasked for and that Dr Laduner had invited him tobe his guest.There was one thing that was strange. All those yearsago in Vienna Dr Laduner had not worn the smile thatlooked like a mask stuck on in front of a mirror. And,too – perhaps he had got this wrong, there was no wayof checking – he had the impression there was fearlurking somewhere in his eyes.“There’s the clinic,” said Laduner, pointing out ofthe side window with his right hand. A red-brick building,U-shaped as far as Studer could tell, with lots oftowers and turrets. Surrounded by pine trees, lots ofdark pine trees. It disappeared for a moment, thenreappeared; there was the main entrance and therounded steps leading up to the door. The carstopped. The two of them got out.